The earliest risers in Little Arcady found him already busied, and those abroad latest at night would see or hear him about the little unpainted house in the big garden.
I suspect he had come out into the strange world of the North with large, loose notions that the fortune he needed might be speedily amassed. Such tales had been told him in his Southland, where he had not learned to question or doubt. If so, his disappointment was not to be seen in his bearing. That look of patient endurance may have eaten a little deeper the lines about his inky eyes, but I am sure his purpose had never wavered nor his faith that he would win at last.
As I ate my breakfast that morning he told me of his good year. The early produce of his garden had sold well. Soon there would be half an acre of potatoes to dig, and now there was a fine crop of melons just coming ripe. These he would begin to sell on the morrow.
At this point, breakfast being done, the cloth brushed, and a light brought for my pipe, Clem came from the kitchen with a new pine board upon which he had painted a sign with shoe polish.
"Yes, seh, Mahstah Majah,—Ah beg yo' t' see if hit's raght!" and he held it up to me. It read:—
Mellins on Sale
Mush & Water
Ask Mr. Tuckerman
at his House.
